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•  Silver  £%Cea  dows 


Poems  appearing  in  this  volume  have 
been  previously  published  in  The 
Trimmed  Lamp;  Youth,  a  Magazine  of 
Verse;  Poetry;  Contemporary  Verse; 
and  The  Midland. 


ROUGH  TRAILS  AND 
SILVER  MEADOWS 


BY 

LEYLAND  HUCKFIELD 


THE  MIDLAND  PRESS 

GLENNIE,  ALCONA  COUNTY 

MICHIGAN 


COPYRIGHT  1922 
BY  LEYLAND  HUCKFIELD 


342703 


CONTENTS 

MID-WESTERN 

BIDING  WEST 1 

DEATH-SONG  OF  THE  MAD  GOD  WHO  MADE  THE  GRAND  CANYON    2 

BREAK-UP  IN  THE  SOUTH  SASKATCHEWAN       ....  4 

THE  COFFER-DAM  CREW 5 

NORTH  —  NORTH  —  NORTH 6 

SPELL  OF  THE  RIVER 8 

THE  FORD  AT  SASKATOON    .      .      .     r 10 

OFF  CATALINA 12 

THE  SONS  OF  DAN 14 

THE  BALLAD  OF  A  WALKING  Boss  .......  16 

ENGLISH 

AVON  MEMORIES 21 

THE  LABORER  IN  THE  MISTS      .      .      .      .      .      »      .      .  24 

AN  APRIL  NIGHT    .      ;      .      . :  " .      .      .      .      .      .      .  26 

HAUNTED  REAPING       .      .      .     >      .      ...      .      .  28 

OH,  FOR  A  DARK  GREEN  HILL-TOP       .      .      .      .      .      .  30 

THE  TRAMP  GIRL 31 

LAST  LOAD  HOME .      .      ...  36 

OIL  OF  MAN     .      .      ...      ,      .      .      .      .      .      .  38 

THE  LAND  OF  PLUMS  ..........  40 

THE  CAROL  SINGERS     .      .      .      ...      .     . .     ..      .  43 

NIGHT  MOODS 

THE  OLD  GODS  MARCH       .      .      .      .      .      .      ,      .      .  49 

PASSING  OF  THE  MAD  SINGERS  .      .      .      .      ,      .      f      .  50 

A  MIDNIGHT  SONG ....  51 

A  WINTER  GALE    . 52 

THE  BOGGING  OF  DEATH 54 

THE  SINGING  SKULL                                                            .  56 


vn 


A  SONG  OP  DARK  HOURS 59 

THE  GALES  OP  AUTUMN 61 

FLEETS  OP  DOOM 62 

LURE  OP  LIGHT 64 

DAWN-LIGHT 

WHEN  You  HAVE  DREAMED  YOUR  DREAM 67 

CERAMICS 68 

A  GARDENER  TO  A  POTTER 69 

THE  SMITHY  ABOVE  THE  MOON 70 

To  A  PARAKEET 71 

BIRDS  THAT  CLEAVE  THE  SHADOWS 72 

WHEN  I  LAY  DOWN  MY  CRAFTSMAN  TOOLS      ....  74 

THE  MUSE  IN  CHURCH 75 

IN  JANUARY  FOG 76 

THERE  Is  A  GARDEN  IN  MY  BRAIN  .  77 


Vlll 


MID- WE  STERN 


XI 


RIDING  WEST 

Half  a  score  of  us  were  roaring  a  drinking  song 
With  the  iron-wheeled  scrapers  clanking  a  mad  refrain, 
And  ever  the  trampled  ground  gave  back  that  din  of 

sound, 

Flinging  it  into  the  dusty  air  again 
Like  an  echo  of  agony  throbbing  on  and  on, 
For  we  were  riding  West  where  never  a  wheel  had  gone 
And  where  never  the  ghost  of  a  trail  had  ever  lain. 

We  loomed  against  a  flaming  Autumn  sky 

As  we  swung  steadily  over  a  prairie  swell 

On  through  clouds  of  hoof -tossed  alkali 

That  stung  like  evil  dust  from  the  trails  of  Hell : 

Back  behind  us  we  heard  the  teamsters  yell, 

Heard  the  creaking  of  tugs  and  the  ringing  of  chains 

And  saw  the  loaded  wagons  lurching  along. 

We  felt  the  cool  night  wind  and  the  prairie  weeds  waved 

slowly 

And  the  flame  of  the  sun  went  down  as  the  breeze  arose, 
And  now  we  rode  through  a  world  that  was  weirdly  holy 
Where  the  song  and  the  curses  came  to  a  lifeless  close : 

Only  the  clanking  and  ringing  of  iron  things 
Never  ended  but  mocked  at  the  darkening  land, 
Clanging  a  strident  tune  that  all  could  understand  — 
A  prophecy  of  multitudes  tramping  behind  a  plow  — 

Over  to  the  south  of  us  we  heard  a  rushing  of  wings 
And  saw  the  dim  triangles  of  wild  geese  beating  away 
To  waters  farther  west,  blood-red  with  the  dying  glow: 

And  our  pounding  hoofs  boomed  doom  to  the  solitudes 
As  the  grading  outfit  swung  by  rise  and  hollow; 
A  ragged,  a  vermined  crew,  hardened  of  heart  and  thew, 
Steadily  riding  West  —  with  the  rest  of  the  world  to 
follow. 


DEATH-SONG  OF  THE  MAD  GOD  WHO  MADE 
THE  GEAJSTD  CANYON 

Oh !  I  am  the  god  who  so  mightily  trod  — 
Trampled  Chaos  and  tore  it  asunder, 
Rose  from  the  mire  and  the  mists  and  the  fire 
Reeking  with  heat  and  throbbing  with  thunder; 
Who  drank  the  blood  of  the  league-long  things 
That  came  to  bathe  in  the  boiling  springs ; 
To  whom  as  a  thorn  was  the  dinosaur 's  horn; 
I,  who  was  born  in  the  scalding  gloom 
And  flung  from  the  terrible  flaming  womb 
Of  the  Mother  of  Doom  —  down  under. 

I  ravaged  the  world  and  the  rocks  I  hurled 

Broke  gold  from  the  sun  in  showers, 

And  I  hated  the  moon  so  I  murdered  it  soon  — 

The  moon  with  its  damnable  flowers  — 

The  flesh  of  Earth's  herds  made  gargantuan  feasts, 

For  ever  I  harried  the  mightier  beasts ; 

Roaring  and  raving,  wandering,  I 

Swore  that  their  bones  in  the  rocks  and  rivers 

Of  Earth  forever  should  lie. 

Where  the  valleys  were  lit  with  flames  of  the  pit 

I  trampled  the  carcases  gory, 

I  lurched  and  I  swung  till  the  madness  I  sung 

Broke  my  heart  with  its  passion  and  glory ; 

But  I  roared  till  the  night  was  a-quiver  with  fright 

And  I  vowed  I  would  die,  as  I  'd  lived,  in  my  might ; 

So  I  broke  from  the  mountains  their  pinnacled  walls 

And  tossed  them  to  Hell  with  wild,  bellowing  bawls ; 

And  the  devils  came  up  through  the  fire  and  the  smother, 

Dancing  in  flame  and  chasing  each  other ; 

Oh !  all  the  devils  in  Hell  were  by 

To  see  the  Mad  God  mightily  die 

Who  was  born  of  the  Old  Mad  Mother. 


DEATH-SONG  OF  THE  MAD  GOD  WHO  MADE  THE  GRAND  CANYON 

From  each  blazing  bog,  through  the  blood-red  fog, 

From  my  bottomless  caves  of  plunder, 

The  gold  I  hauled  and  the  flesh  I  mauled 

And  piled  them  in  horrible  wonder ; 

I  mixed  them  together,  I  piled  them  high 

From  the  floor  of  Hell  to  the  roof  of  the  Sky; 

Eoaring  and  howling,  happily  I 

Made  out  of  chaos  a  Thing  that  never  — 

Never  —  never  can  die. 


BKEAK-UP  IN  THE  SOUTH 
SASKATCHEWAN 

The  morning  came  in  crocus  flame  above  the  prairie's  rim, 
Though  all  about  our  blackened  shacks  the  shadows  still 

were  grim, 

And  with  the  day,  from  far  away,  a  grinding  roar  began 
That  shook  the  earth  till  from  each  berth  leapt  forth  a 

cursing  man, 

And  we  raised  a  mighty  shout,  for  the  ice  was  going  out 
And  hell  was  breaking  loose  in  the  South  Saskatchewan. 

The  great  floes  clung  and  smashed  and  swung  and  charged 
on  either  shore, 

They  were  as  creatures  of  the  deep  unseen  by  man  before, 

They  tossed  and  broke  in  splinter-smoke,  they  heaved  and 
ripped  and  ran, 

It  seemed  as  though  the  dawn  had  chanced  upon  the  weir- 
wolf  clan  — 

As  though  vast  wolves  and  fierce  white  bears  went 
through  Saskatchewan. 

They  gnashed  and  crept,  they  writhed  and  leapt  with 
dripping  jaws  thrown  high, 

Till  crashing  thunders  rocked  the  bluffs  and  split  the 
morning  sky, 

In  frightful  ranks  they  gored  the  banks  and  surging  fast 
began 

A  grinding,  growling,  roaring  rout  behind  their  awful  van 

Of  horrors  white  that  clawed  the  spine  of  cowed  Saskat- 
chewan. 


THE  COFFER-DAM  CREW 

Fifty  below,  and  an  hour  to  dawn; 

Three  black-beamed  derricks,  stark  and  hard, 

Lean  above  us  and  bar  the  sky : 

We  are  the  night-gang,  the  coffer-dam  crew, 
Picking  and  pounding  as  devils  do, 
Scraping  forty  feet  down  under 
The  whirring  derricks'  rattle  and  thunder,    „ 
And  far  down  under  the  river  too. 

Dignity  of  toil?    Be  damned ! 
Muscles  stiff  with  the  creeping  cold; 
Heavy  picks  in  rock-jarred  hands, 
And  the  shift  a  hundred  ages  old : 
Noses  blistered  down  to  the  bone, 
Cheek-bones  raw  from  a  rubbing  mitt  — 
Here's  where  the  wheezing  boozers  groan, 
Down  on  the  dead-line  of  human  grit. 

Steady  hiss  of  the  engine  steam, 

Chunk  and  thlug  of  a  ceaseless  pump ; 

We  are  the  souls  in  Hell 's  extreme  — 

Stick  to  the  job,  or  starve  —  thump  —  thump. 

Thirty  minutes  to  seven  o  'clock, 

Fires  of  endurance  nearly  dead, 

Pick  —  pick  —  pick  —  at  the  ice  and  rock, 

The  foreman  —  Fate  —  scowls  overhead. 

The  day  gang's  here:  We  seek  our  lair  — 
And  it's  sixty  below,  as  the  dawnlight  shows 
At  the  rickety  shanty  a  mile  up-shore  — 
Oh !  grinding  god  of  the  grim  white  snows, 
What  the  devil  d'ye  think  we  care? 
Give  us  coffee  and  let  us  snore. 


NORTH  —  NORTH  —  NORTH 

North  —  north  —  north  — 

Plunging  towards  the  Pole ; 

The  horses  pound  and  the  oxen  plod 

And  the  tin-horn  crooks  and  men  of  God 

Are  all  on  the  muster  roll. 

There's  sound  of  the  usual  things 
That  lie  in  a  wagon  bed ; 
Iron  that  chinks  and  rings 
Like  broken  chains  of  the  dead; 
And  clatter  of  household  tins, 
And  tinkle  of  hidden  glass, 
And  feet  as  heavy  as  lead 
Tramping  the  prairie  grass: 

And  lean,  white-bearded  men 

Stiff  with  their  years  and  sins, 

Chew  and  mumble,  and  mumble  and  chew, 

And  rumble  tales  as  they  always  do 

When  the  sap  of  manhood  thins. 

'Forty  crowded  years  ago 
Up  from  Iowa  they  came; 
Young  and  lank  and  bullock-strong, 
And  ripped  the  tough  Dakota  plain 
With  bellowed  curse  and  crack  of  thong : 
Upsprung  the  rustling  lakes  of  grain, 
Its  promise  changed  to  flame  of  gold, 
But  ease  was  cursed  until  they  sold 
And  faced  the  Northern  trail  again. ' 

North  —  north  —  north  — 
Into  Saskatchewan; 
Rolling  over  the  Border  Line, 
Baggage  and  beast  and  man : 
Boiling  up  on  the  Old  Bone  Trail 
In  the  wake  of  the  buffalo  — 
Grim-eyed  men  in  the  power  of  prime 
Plunging  into  the  snow. 

6 


NORTH NORTH NORTH 

North  to  the  site  of  Medicine  Hat 
To  build  them  a  flimsy  town ; 
To  hammer  it  up  in  the  freezing  Fall 
And  next  year  hammer  it  down : 
On  in  front  of  the  grading  crews ; 
On  while  the  land  was  young  — 
Night  and  day  on  a  wagon  box 
With  a  star  at  the  end  of  the  tongue. 

North  —  north  —  north  — 
Under  the  sun  and  moon 
I  saw  them  raising  the  shacks  and  tents 
Of  an  early  Saskatoon: 
Hammering  mightily,  breeding  there, 
Breaking  the  sod  and  seeding  there, 
And  ever  with  gamblers'  eyes 
Peering  afar  for  a  fateful  star 
That  hangs  in  the  Northern  skies. 

North  —  north  —  north  — 

They  were  going,  and  still  they  go ; 

They  are  breaking  the  far  Peace  River  lands 

Where  it's  seventy-five  below  — 

Where  it's  seventy-five  below 

In  the  Borealis  glare, 

They  have  broken  the  sod,  and  by  grace  of  God 

The  wheat  is  greening  there. 

North  —  north  —  north  — 

Far  up  in  McKenzieland, 

There  may  be  a  plot  where  the  soil  is  hot 

And  a  crop  of  grain  may  stand ; 

And  the  lean  old  men  with  creaking  bones 

Will  out  of  their  chairs  and  go, 

Buckle  traces  to  blind  old  teams 

And  head  them  into  the  snow  — 

Into  the  heart  of  a  lonely  land 

That  leads  to  the  lifeless  Pole, 

As  long  as  a  weary  foot  may  stand 

Or  a  creaking  wheel  may  roll. 


SPELL  OF  THE  RIVER 

When  you  have  dreamed  for  a  night  by  the  mighty  Mis- 
sissippi 

Take  up  the  wanderer's  bundle  and  lock  the  homestead 
door; 

Open  the  gates  of  the  pasture  and  let  the  beasts  go  free 

And  turn  your  feet  to  the  river  road  that  leads  to  the 
heaving  sea, 

For  you  have  done  with  the  valley  farm  for  ever  and 
evermore. 

You  are  thrall  to  the  river,  the  slave  of  his  rolling  flood ; 
Bound  to  his  glistening  silver  breast  and  chained  to  a 

flashing  blade, 
For  the  croon  of  his  midnight  music  has  drifted  into  your 

blood, 
And  the  surge  of  his  soul  has  drowned  your  soul  as 

though  it  had  never  been  made. 

Dip  your  paddle,  or  swing  your  oar,  or  hoist  a  canvas 

sheet ; 
North  to  the  blue  St.  Croix  or  south  to  the  flats  of  New 

Orleans ; 

Nothing  will  ever  be  half  so  fair  as  what  lies  on  before, 
Be  it  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  or  the  old  Missouri  shore 
Or  banks  where  summer  blossoms  blow  till  all  the  river  is 

sweet. 

Spring,  with  the  tassels  dropping  fast  from  leaning  wil- 
low sprays, 

Silver  lights  and  silver  rains  and  fleece-flocked  April 
skies; 

Silence  of  swooning  summer  nights  in  shadow-haunted 
bays 

And  days  when  red  October's  gold  upon  the  water  lies. 


SPELL  OF  THE  BIVEE 


Had  you  song?    What  need  of  a  song  when  Mississippi 

sings  1 
Thunder  thrilling  his  tawny  deeps,  his  shallows  trilling 

refrain  — 
Love  of  beauty  and  peace  that  fled  with  coming  of  evil 

things  ? 
Turn  to  the  river  and  beauty  and  peace  shall  enter  your 

lives  again. 

Would  you  solve  the  spell  of  the  Kiver?  —  Go  learn  the 

drag  of  the  sea 
That  calls  to  the  salty  blood  of  men  since  ever  a  keel  was 

laid  — 
But  —  set  your  feet  to  the  river  road  and  the  end  of  the 

tale  shall  be 
That  the  surge  of  his  soul  engulfed  your  soul  as  though  it 

had  never  been  made. 


THE  FORD  AT  SASKATOON 

The  edge  of  the  world  lay  hid  in  purple  haze 
When  we  came  down  to  the  ford  at  Saskatoon, 
But  the  tops  of  the  poplar  bluffs  were  all  ablaze 
With  a  deepening  orange  glow  that  lit  the  river  below, 
For  the  stars  were  huddling  back  from  a  giant  moon. 

The  creak  of  the  wagon  poles  was  blasphemy  from  hell 

Tearing  the  dreaming  winds  of  a  new  found  land, 

And  the  clinking,  rusty  chains  were  fetters  of  unknown 

dead 

Tramping  beside  the  wagons  on  either  hand : 
It  almost  seemed  as  though  the  slushers  were  clanking  a 

knell 

As  we  came  down  to  the  ford  at  Saskatoon  — 
It  almost  seemed  as  though  we  heard  a  tuneless  bell 
Tolling  beneath  the  darkness  under  the  moon. 

Somewhere  back  on  the  trail  a  straw-boss  cursed  us  ail 
With  the  thin  hyaena  whine  of  a  weak-willed  fool ; 
We  heard  the  sucking  feet  of  a  hundred  teams 
Descending  steadily  in  unending  line  — 
And  then  the  arching  boughs  of  the  willows  immersed  us 

all 

In  the  gloom  of  a  haunted  mine 
Beflecked  with  scattering  beams. 


10 


THE  FOBD  AT  SASKATOON 

And  so  we  came  to  the  ford  at  Saskatoon 
And  marked  the  light  in  a  shack  on  the  farther  shore, 
And  heard  Saskatchewan  with  her  hungry  croon 
And  put  our  foremost  team  at  the  swirling  flood  — 

********* 

And  now,  whenever  we  map  the  river,  we  draw  it  in  blood, 
And  that  is  the  true  tint  of  the  South  Saskatchewan ; 
For  we  can  hear  the  cries  of  the  drowned  men  evermore, 
We  can  hear  the  rusty  chains  clinking  under  the  moon, 
And  shiver  with  dread  of  a  treacherous  trap  as  when  we 

stood 
Peering  for  Death  by  the  ford  at  Saskatoon. 


11 


OFF  CATALINA 

On  this  enchanted  tide 
I  pray  my  soul  may  ride 
When  the  long  life-day  is  done, 
Then  will  I  wanton  wide 
Among  the  purple  hollows 
And  the  white  gull  that  follows 
Shall  be  swift  to  keep  my  side : 

And  when  from  those  rich  valleys 
I  leap  great  ridges  golden, 
Bright  foothills  of  the  sea, 
I  shall  not  lonely  be, 
For  the  vast  depths  beneath  me 
Shall  glow  till  they  bequeath  me 
The  glory  of  the  olden 
Castilian  chivalry; 

(For  where  the  kelp  waves  slowly 

Are  secrets  dim  and  holy  — 

For  children  looking  down 

Have  seen  strange  children  playing 

By  weed  and  bright  hued  stone, 

And  bearded  men  in  helmets 

That  ever  pace  alone 

In  the  wide  ocean  gardens 

That  are  of  far  renown.) 

Then  in  gay  grace  shall  rise 
From  each  battered  galleon 
The  adventurers  of  Spain 
With  their  puncheons  of  old  wine, 
And  their  treasure  streams  shall  flow 
From  the  velvet  gloom  below 
And  shall  heave  and  glow 
On  the  brine : 


12 


OFF  CATALINA 

And  the  great  Pacific  moon 
Will  kiss  each  pale  doubloon 
As  it  magically  swings  — 
For  her  delight  and  wonder 
Are  still  in  ancient  things, 
In  the  stately  ships  of  plunder 
And  the  scarlet  robes  of  kings, 
In  the  splendor  and  disdain 
That  will  come  to  earth  again 
When  the  souls  of  men  again 
Have  wings. 

Oh,  nightly  shall  my  soul  — 
Though  it  be  too  sweet  a  doom  — 
Drift  like  a  fleck  of  foam 
Through  the  empurpled  gloom; 
When  has  each  gallant  Don 
To  his  lost  galleon  gone, 
And  the  moon  has  drunk  her  fill 
From  the  wine  cup  of  the  sea, 
Then  will  I  find  my  rest 
In  a  cove  my  eyes  have  seen, 
Where  lurks  a  mystic  green  — 
For  I  know  these  hidden  waters 
With  most  mysterious  sheen 
Have  once  a  sea-king's  daughter's 
Enchanted  love-pool  been. 

Then  shall  all  motive  cease, 
And  I  will  lie  at  peace 
All  the  day  long, 
Till  comes  a  twilight  song 
From  the  unfathomed  deeps 
And  from  far  mainland  heights 
The  dying  sunlight  creeps  — 
And  come  the  flashing  stars 
And  the  bright  moon  — 
And  Catalina  lies 
In  mists  a-swoon. 

13 


THE  SONS  OF  DAN 

Through  great  sun-blinded  valleys  where  bones  of  the 

lost  are  strewn, 
To  lurching  of  white-topped  wagons  and  din  of  household 

pans, 
To  lowing  of  stumbling  cattle,  whip-crack,  and  bitten 

groan, 
The  Mormons  march  with  the  Lord  of  Hosts  in  the  dust 

of  their  caravans. 

Their  broad-brimmed  hats  with  the  tattered  rims  are 

white  with  alkali, 
They  ride  in  a  cloud  with  the  sun  before  like  an  olden 

lure  of  flame ; 
They  thirst  and  choke  while  the  women  crouch  by  pallets 

where  madmen  die 
Through  arrow,  and  fever,  and  fortune-thrust  for  the 

glory  of  God's  name. 

Ever  and  ever  the  scouts  drift  in  with  long  black  guns 
unslung, 

With  tangled  beards  and  red-rimmed  eyes  that  have  out- 
stared  Death's  own, 

And  the  wagons  wheel  as  the  horses  leap,  urged  on  by 
lash  and  lung, 

And  the  charging  Kiowas  divide  on  a  ring  of  fire-flecked 
stone. 

Arises  a  chant  where  flame-beds  glow  to  the  God  of  the 

Sons  of  Dan ; 
Deep  coulees  throb  to  thundering  hymns  that  shake  the 

prairie  sod ; 
And  the  vast  black  night  that  closes  down  like  evil  doom 

of  Man 
Quivers  long  to  a  battle  song  of  the  grim  old  Mormon 

God. 

14 


THE  SONS  OF  DAN 

For  these  are  the  Men  of  the  Covenant,  of  the  Word  and 

Avenging  Sword, 

They  ride  to  the  blast  of  Gabriel,  on  way  to  a  goodly  vale, 
By  trails  of  death,  by  lonely  plains,  past  floods  with 

never  a  ford, 
They  follow  a  splendid  prophecy,  a  flame,  and  a  Holy 

Grail. 

And  the  word  of  the  prophet  is  certain;  they  shall  build 
an  abiding-place, 

They  shall  make  them  another  Jerusalem,  with  a  taber- 
nacle of  prayer; 

And  the  Men  of  the  Lord  shall  raise  them  up  new  seed  of 
a  mighty  race 

And  the  Sword  of  God  shall  go  with  them  wherever  the 
bugles  blare. 

There  are  bones  where  the  wagons  rumble,  there  are 

skulls  in  the  prairie  grass, 
But  on  they  roll  through  storm  and  sun  in  the  might  of 

a  firm  accord; 
For  the  Sons  of  Dan  shall  greatly  thrive  whenever  it 

comes  to  pass 
That  they  raise  them  a  splendid  city  to  the  glory  of  the 

Lord. 


15 


THE  BALLAD  OF  A  WALKING-BOSS 

In  a  rickety  rig  on  a  cloudy  day, 

With  freeze-up  hurrying  down, 

The  walking-boss  and  a  straw-boss  came 

Joggling  into  town; 

Come  racketting  into  Saskatoon 

And  straight  for  the  Queen  Hotel, 

Knowing  the  place  was  half  saloon 

And  the  other  half  was  hell. 

Down,  down,  went  the  rot-gut  rye 
As  fast  as  the  bar-keep  set  'em, 
And  the  walking-boss  with  a  bleary  eye 
Could  scarcely  wait  to  get  'em ; 
They  set  'em  up  and  he  put  'em  down 
And  every  lick  seemed  sweeter, 
But  the  little  straw-boss  he  giv'  out 
And  went  to  sleep  by  the  heater. 

And  the  slusher-men  and  the  teamsters  come 

With  all  the  trash  that  are, 

And  some  were  strong  for  the  Grand  Trunk  Line 

And  some  for  the  C.  P.  E., 

And  some  of  'em  swore  by  old  Jim  Hill 

More'n  they  swore  by  the  Cross, 

But  the  favorite  names  was  'Dan  and  Bill' 

That  hired  the  walking-boss. 

And  this  was  the  Fall  of  Nineteen-eight 
When  the  times  was  slack  and  slacker, 
With  grub-stakes  low  and  credits  so 
It  was  hard  to  get  tobaccer ; 
But  the  walking-boss  had  come  to  town 
And  it  looked  like  something  brewing, 
So  we  hung  around  and  we  hung  around 
For  whatever  was  up  and  doing. 


16 


THE  BALLAD  OF  A  WALKING  BOSS 

And  after  an  hour  the  boss  come  out 

And  he  staggered  a  bit  and  swayed, 

And  his  blind  eye  goggled  and  rolled  about, 

And  this  is  the  speech  he  made : 

At  least,  it's  part  of  his  speech,  though  he 

Didn't  talk  as  the  preachers  do, 

And  some  that  he  said  was  a  langwidge  dead 

To  all  but  a  grading-crew. 

"Lads — "  he  roared,  till  the  sidewalk  shook 

With  the  sounds  stentorian  — 

"Here  I  am  and  I  works,  by  God, 

For  them  devils,  Bill  and  Dan : 

Twenty  years  in  this  damned  land 

I've  scorched  and  frizzled  and  friz 

In  a  hundred  above  to  sixty  below 

As  the  way  of  the  country  is. 

"Twenty  years  in  the  sand  and  clay 

Of  one  or  another  line, 

Shoving  and  driving  a  right  o'  way 

On  grub  as  'ud  sicken  swine; 

Cutting  sleugh-hay  to  feed  the  c'ral 

Till  the  bosses  up  an'  died, 

And  whenever  they  fell  the  harness  bruk 

Or  the  string  'ud  come  untied. 

*  *  Rot  —  rot  —  in  the  cooking-pot 
And  the  tents  forever  in  holes ; 
We  didn't  care  for  our  bodies  much 
And  we  figgered  we  had  no  souls ; 
We  was  raw  and  red  with  the  prairie  itch, 
We  was  grey-backed  head  to  toes  — 
Oh,  some  may  talk  of  the  torment  rack 
But  we  old  graders  knows. 


17 


THE  BALLAD  OF  A  WALKING  BOSS 

"Some  of  the  time  we'll  get  our  pay, 

Most  of  the  time  we  won't, 

But  we  '11  never  starve  till  Doom  o '  Day 

If  Bill  and  Daniel  don't  — 

We  may  get  sick  with  the  pizen  stuff 

That  comes  through  the  cook-shack  door, 

But  them  as  survives  'ill  be  so  tough 

That  they'll  live  for  evermore. 

6 '  So  come  along  —  y '  grey-back  crew  — 

I'll  hire  y'  every  man, 

I  '11  baste  your  hides  as  I  always  do 

For  the  good  of  Bill  and  Dan : 

I'll  feed  y'  grub  as  a  dog  'ud  scorn, 

And  drinks  as  'ill  taste  like  brine ; 

I'll  make  y'  wish  y'  had  never  been  born 

But  I'll  build  the  Goose-Lake  Line." 

And  in  we  went  to  the  swimming  bar 
And  the  boss  he  paid  the  bill  — 
They  set  'em  up  and  we  put  'em  down 
With  a  grab  and  a  right  good  will ; 
Till,  one  by  one,  they  carried  us  out 
Where  the  trail  to  camp  began, 
Where  the  walking-boss  was  sobbing  about 
The  glory  of  Bill  and  Dan. 


18 


ENGLISH 


19 


AVON  MEMORIES 

Gaffer  Perks  on  his  chain  of  land 

Smokes  his  pipe  in  the  church's  shadow; 

An  old  Brown  Bess  in  his  gnarled  left  hand 

And  a  tilting  eye  for  rooks  that  fly 

From  the  trees  down  by  the  haulme  meadow. 

And  the  Avon  flows  silently,  gently  down, 
Passing  on,  passing  on, 
With  leaves  from  the  elms  of  Stratford  town 
And  Godfrey's  bell  tolls  gloomily. 

The  long  fields  surge  with  dark-green  wheat, 
Knee-deep  meadows  softly  sway, 
The  Cotswolds  glow  with  copper  flame 
And  the  gale  dies  with  the  dying  day : 

I  hear  the  voices  of  wandering  lovers 
Eound  the  willow  hidden  bends, 
Here  and  there  a  silent  shape 
Crouches  low  in  the  reedy  covers  — 
As  it  was  in  olden  times 
When  the  cowled  freres  came 
And  fished  by  dreamy  Avonside, 
And  heard  the  nightingale  begin 
With  the  first  convent  chimes. 

Slow  —  low  — 
Through  the  dewy  gloom, 
Music  falls  from  grey  old  towers 
Upon  knighthood's  crumbled  tomb 
And  hidden  fields  of  flowers. 

It  is  a  land  of  dreams, 
Dark  hills  and  magic  moors, 
Of  Druid  oaks  and  streams 
Flowing  to  ancient  shores : 


21 


AVON  MEMORIES 

There  is  mystery  here  in  the  dusky  lanes 
About  that  time  when  the  May-bloom  falls, 
For,  when  the  eye  sees  no  thing  pass, 
There  is  sound  of  feet  upon  the  grass : 
Riffle  of  lace  and  shirr  of  satin, 
Lilt  of  French  and  drone  of  Latin, 
And  ring  of  steel  on  vanished  walls ; 
And,  at  times,  in  the  pulsing  quiet, 
Hedges  shiver  with  ghostly  riot 
Of  mad,  barbaric  strains 
From  buried  banquet  halls. 

This  is  a  land  where  queens  have  journeyed 
In  blossoming-orchard-times  of  old, 
To  music  of  rich  pageantry ; 
Through  the  valley  riding  down 
With  passing  glint  of  gold. 

From  Tewkesbury  up  to  Stratford  town 
In  the  keep  of  Bredon  Hill, 
If  in  dark  of  dawn  you  listen 
You  can  hear  the  shrill 
Piping  of  the  morriss  dancers 
On  the  winding  river  road ; 
You  may  see  the  spangles  glisten 
Though  the  dancers'  feet  are  still. 

And  if  you  were  not  born  among 

Avon's  scattered  fairy  rings, 

And  cannot  see  the  elvery 

Nor  hear  the  pagan  strings ; 

Still,  when  from  straw-thatched  cottage  roofs 

The  slow  blue  wreaths  arise 

In  the  dim  hush  of  April  morns 

Like  breath  of  sacrifice  — 

And  the  dark  hills  encircle  you  around  — 

What  need  to  whisper  to  the  wise 

That  here  is  haunted  ground  t 

22 


AVON  MEMORIES 

Eipples  in  the  shallows  by  the  bridge 

Where  the  road  goes  up  to  Cropthorne  on  the  hill, 

Summer  haze  and  ladysmocks 

And  clack  of  Fladbury  mill  — 

And  cackle  of  grey  geese  in  the  meadows, 

And  gold  and  purple  mists  upon  it  all, 

And  cows  going  home  through  the  shadows 

That  softly  — -  softly  — -  fall. 

Hark!    Hark!    Godfrey's  Bell! 
Far  —  how  far  —  it  seems: 
Still  it  tolls  for  Avon's  souls 
A  grim  and  steady  Saxon  knell  — 
And  —  now  —  it  tolls  my  dreams. 


23 


THE  LABORER  IN  THE  MISTS 

Toiling  throughout  the  day,  wet  with  the  fogs  of  Novem- 
ber, 

With  a  brief,  white,  muffled  sun  looming  at  height  of  noon, 

And  somewhere,  hidden  but  near,  plum  boughs  dripping 
in  rhythm  — 

Laboring  in  the  mists,  with  a  joy  that  it's  pain  to  remem- 
ber. 

Laboring  in  the  mists ;  spading  the  loam  and  dreaming 

Of  glorious  days  to  be  for  the  great,  gay,  loving  Earth ; 

When  the  minds  of  men  should  be  free  and  the  gates  of 
beauty  be  open, 

And  good  should  mightily  reign,  from  a  throne  unshak- 
able streaming. 

And  then  home  through  the  dark,  with  the  mists  still  fall- 
ing, 

And  the  lights  of  the  cottages  gleaming,  cheerily  yellow 
and  warm, 

And  to  see,  ere  the  gate  clicked  as  it  heavily  swung  be- 
hind me, 

My  mother's  form  in  the  doorway,  and  hear  her  anx- 
iously calling. 

And  then,  when  the  meal  was  done,  to  rise  from  the  fire 

red-glowing 

And  pass  out  into  the  clinging,  drizzling  murk  again 
And  tramp  almost  till  morn,  though  never  a  star  was 

shining, 
And  ever  to  stride  with  a  vision  about  me  flaming  and 

flowing. 


24 


THE  LABORER  IN  THE  MISTS 

But  to  labor  still  in  the  mists,  with  dreams  and  the  joy  of 

dreaming, 
And  the  chill  fogs  thickening  ever,  the  visions  distant  and 

dim  — 
And  the  heart-glow  smothered  at  nightfall,  and  no  voice 

fondly  calling, 
And  forever,  a  burden  of  thought,  and  no  light  in  the  wide 

world  gleaming? 


25 


AN  APRIL  NIGHT 

Some  loose  thatch  on  the  farm  barn  fluttered  as  we  went 
through  the  lane 

And  the  sweet,  wet  stars  looked  down,  like  the  lights  of 
Malvern  town 

After  the  warm-breathed  valley  has  been  washed  by  twi- 
light rain. 

Far  up  the  tops  of  the  elms  were  roaring,  a  hundred  feet 

or  so, 
And  the  old  barn's  battered  vane  was  creaking  a  wild 

refrain 
As  it  pointed  away  to  the  hills  where  the  waning  moon 

was  low. 

And  little  we  recked  of  dripping  branches  and  brown  mud 
under  our  feet, 

For  we  walked  to  the  pulse  of  Spring  —  an  aching,  riot- 
ous thing  — 

In  a  dim  Arcadian  quiet  filled  with  the  ripple  of  green 
wheat  — 

Till  we  came  to  the  broad  highway  that  leads  from  village 

to  sleepy  town 

And  lingered  a  moment  there  like  lovers  that  unaware 
Come  to  an  ancient,  magical  road  that  leads  to  a  land  un- 
known: 

For  the  broad  highway  went  winding  away  to  where  the 

low  moon  shone : 
Like  a  ribbon  of  bridal  white  it  ran  through  the  fragrant 

night, 
It  ran  through  the  fragrant  night,  it  seemed,  to  the  moon, 

and  on,  and  on. 


26 


AN  APBIL  NIGHT 

But  the  yellow  moon  drew  down  at  last  the  long  black 

hills  behind ; 

And,  treading  the  dewy  sod,  it  seemed  that  a  lovelorn  god 
Was  abroad  —  for  a  far-off  nightingale  was  flinging  his 

soul  on  the  wind. 

And  the  apple  blossoms  were  falling,  falling,  and  drifting 

into  the  lane  — 
And  we  walked  like  lovers  dead  —  who  had  not,  living, 

wed  — 
We  were  too  full  of  awe  to  kiss  when  we  came  to  the  house 

again. 


27 


HAUNTED  REAPING 

Out  we  go  in  the  dusk  of  morn 

Over  the  hills  to  the  reaping, 

Our  sickles  crash  on  the  golden  corn 

When  the  rest  of  earth  is  sleeping; 

Bending  and  bowing,  bending  and  bowing, 

Gathering  in  and  striking  free, 

Gripping  the  sheaf  with  the  sickle  and  knee 

And  laying  it  down  for  the  tying. 

The  dim,  dark  hills  are  all  around, 
The  silence  breeds  a  sullen  dread, 
The  sickle  strokes  like  shrieks  resound 
In  chambers  of  the  murdered  dead. 
But  one  dull  star  stays  overhead, 
The  waning  moon  seems  all  awry; 
The  dying  night  is  loth  to  die 
Though  in  the  east  the  mists  are  red. 

Over  the  stubble  chill  winds  creep 
Like  breaths  from  a  dead  world  blowing, 
God !  it  is  awesome  so  to  reap 
With  such  strange  fancies  growing. 
Bending  and  bowing,  bending  and  bowing, 
Gathering  in  and  striking  free, 
Gripping  the  sheaf  with  sickle  and  knee 
And  laying  it  down  for  the  tying. 

My  father  reaps  six  feet  before 
With  hairy  arms  as  hard  as  steel, 
I  hear  the  corn  as  oft  of  yore 
Before  his  whirling  sickle  reel ; 
And,  God !  what  wild,  mad  horrors  steal 
Bidding  me  take  too  long  a  stride 
And  drive  my  sickle  in  his  side 
And  grind  his  face  beneath  my  heel. 


28 


HAUNTED  REAPING 

I  dread  this  brooding,  awful  morn 
With  its  haunted  hush  dismaying  — 
It  seems  as  though  pale  souls  newborn 
Our  curved  wet  blades  were  slaying, 
Bending  and  bowing,  bending  and  bowing, 
Gathering  in  and  striking  free, 
Gripping  the  sheaf  with  the  sickle  and  knee 
And  laying  it  down  for  the  tying. 

My  father's  beard  is  grizzled  grey  — 
It  trails  like  mist  in  heavy  wind  — 
He  was  three-score  yesterday, 
And  yet  I  reap  six  feet  behind. 
Lean  he  is,  and  bent,  and  lined, 
And  he  has  held  me  many  years ; 
And  still  I  toil  in  hate  and  tears, 
And  still  he  swears  that  he  is  kind. 

Ah,  God!  will  morning  never  break? 

I  know  he  is  old  and  loving, 

Yet  I  hear,  with  every  stroke  I  take, 

A  demon  with  me  moving ; 

Bending  and  bowing,  bending  and  bowing, 

Gathering  in  and  striking  free, 

Gripping  the  sheaf  with  the  sickle  and  knee 

And  laying  it  down  for  the  tying. 

At  last !    The  morning  comes  at  last ! 
The  hills  are  rich  with  filtered  gold, 
And  through  the  vales  a  glory  vast 
In  glowing  might  is  swiftly  rolled ; 
And  hard  my  father's  hand  I  hold, 
And  standing  'midst  the  gleaming  corn, 
With  him  thank  heaven  for  the  morn  — 
With  lips  that  still  are  grey  and  cold. 


29 


OH!  FOR  A  DARK-GREEN  HILL-TOP 

Oh !  for  a  dark-green  hill-top  close  to  the  sky 
And  the  song  of  bronzy  bees  in  the  golden  gorse 
And  bleating  of  new-born  lambs  in  the  waving  fern 
And  warm  winds  blowing  out  of  a  purple  waste, 
And,  deep  and  dim,  away  in  the  Western  sky, 
A  dancing  silver  gleam  from  the  distant  sea, 
And  a  faint  breath  of  the  salt  air  thrilling  me 
As  in  a  time  gone  by. 

Oh !  for  a  dark-green  hill-top  close  to  the  sky 
And  the  valley  beneath  me  filled  with  April  foam 
When  plum  and  cherry  and  pear  blossom  smothers  the 

land; 

And  an  olden  madness  drifting  through  my  veins 
And  an  old  song  on  my  lips  as  the  twilight  falls, 
With  longing  for  dim  paths  and  daffodils 
And  sweet  wild  roamings  on  the  lonely  hills, 
And  trysts  in  darkened  lanes. 

Oh !  for  a  dark-green  hill-top  close  to  the  sky 

And  cool  winds  on  my  throat  and  the  night-time  near 

And  the  white  fog  of  the  lowlands  creeping  higher, 

And  all  about  a  rustling  sea  of  fern 

Till  alone  of  the  wide  world  left  is  a  tiny  isle 

Moored  on  a  spectral  flood  that  is  silent  and  cold 

Till  the  dreams  of  youth  are  mine  and  the  magic  of  old  — 

That  sleeps  such  a  long,  sad  while. 


30 


THE  TEAMP  GIRL 

She  had  come  traipsing  through  the  morning  mist 
Out  of  a  dewy  by-lane ;  head  held  high, 
A  gaudy  handkerchief  around  her  hair, 
And  a  blue  bundle  swinging  in  her  hand ; 
Like  some  wild  gipsy  wench  from  Hungary. 

I  was  in  one  tree,  she  was  in  another, 
Both  of  us  tanned  and  lithe  as  savages ; 
And  her  quick  eyes  came  dancing  to  my  own 
Until  my  heart  pulsed  faster,  and,  shame-faced, 
I  stopped  awhile  to  take  her  basket  down. 

Of  course  I  had  to  climb  the  ladder  rungs 
To  pass  the  wicker  measure  back  to  her, 
And  if  one  brown  arm  found  a  curving  waist, 
And  if  her  lips  were  riper  than  the  fruit  — 
What  would  you  have?    I  was  well  past  sixteen. 

The  wind  came  singing  through  the  glossy  leaves 
Of  that  old  plum  plantation  on  the  hill, 
Set  coppice-like  above  the  valley  lands 
That  lay  half  brooding  in  September  haze. 

Close  down  below  us,  in  among  great  elms, 
The  villages  lay  nestled. 

There  was  Moor 

And  Upper  Moor,  and  Wyre,  and  then  one  saw 
The  spire  of  Pershore  Abbey,  and  away 
Far  to  the  west,  the  blue  of  Malvern  Hills. 

Dimly,  and  to  the  right,  the  Wrekin's  peak 
Quivered  in  mist  and  scarcely  could  be  seen ; 
While,  to  the  north,  Throckmorton  's  thatch  appeared 
And  Abberton's  tall  steeple  speared  the  sky, 
A  landmark  for  the  carters  round  about. 


31 


THE  TRAMP  GIRL 

Hillfurze  and  Fladbury,  Cropthorne,  Elmley  Castle, 
Mossed  roofs,  grey  stones,  black  beams  and  white-washed 

walls 

All  huddled  in  among  the  yellowing  trees ; 
And,  like  a  brush-mark  drawn  around  a  bowl, 
The  line  of  Broadway  Hills  that  gently  dipped 
To  join  the  slopes  of  Bredon :  in  that  gap, 
Farther  removed,  the  Cotswold's  stony  fields 
Faded  at  last  in  amethystine  haze. 

A  clean  wind  blew  and  set  the  ladders  swinging; 
The  golden  fruit  swayed  into  swaying  hands ; 
And  I  had  ceased  to  pick,  for  she  was  singing 
Like  some  bright  bird  arrived  from  fairy  lands ; 
Seated  upon  her  ladder's  highest  rung 
Among  the  moving  boughs  and  lightly  clinging  — 

"Eyes  like  diamonds,  teeth  like  pearls; 
There's  none  that  can  beat  'em 
The  Donegal  girls  — " 

Eyes  like  diamonds?    Yes!  and  stars,  and  dew, 
And  veils  of  falling  water  which  the  moon, 
Eising  above  black  woodlands,  filters  through. 

Oh !  she  sat  singing  there  and  half-reclining 
Under  the  drooping  fruit  and  swayed  in  tune 
And  with  the  rhythm  her  brown  arms  went  twining 
Among  the  leaves  and  her  dark  hair  was  blown 
Towards  my  face. 

We  two  were  all  alone 
As  on  a  mountain  island  near  the  sky, 
Swinging  in  heights  of  magic  forestry. 

All  that  day  long  she"  sang,  or  told  me  tales 
Of  dusty  roadways  winding  through  the  hills 

32 


THE  TRAMP  GIRL 

Of  Derbyshire,  and  craggy  paths  of  Wales 

Where  one  might  stand  and  watch  white  specks  of  sails 

Creep  into  distant  Bristol-by-the-Sea. 

She  knew  of  lonely  farms  in  hidden  vales 

Where  good-folk  lived  who  kept  to  bygone  ways, 

A  hundred  years  or  more  behind  the  times : 

There  she  would  dance  and  sing  old  English  rhymes  — 

Often  of  highwaymen  and  press-gang  days  — 

I  can  remember  a  stray  verse  or  two 

Rendered  in  the  true  quavering  ballad  style. 

"The  press-gang  came  for  William 
When  he  was  all  alone, 
They  beat  him  and  they  bound  him 
And  took  him  for  their  own — M 

And  then  a  ribald  one ;  supposedly 

Sung  by  a  country  girl  who  went  to  hire 

At  Stratford  Mop  —  'Twas  called  "The  Bed-Making "  — 

I  begged  her  in  sheer  shame  to  leave  the  last 

Long  stanza  out ;  but,  no,  she  had  to  sing 

It  twice  as  loud  —  and  I  have  always  thought 

The  village  girls  picked  up  that  melody. 

Out  of  a  wanderer's  repertory 
She  sang  'Lord  Bakeman'  dwelling  on  his  joys 
Among  the  lovely  Saracens  —  and  then 
Swung  to  a  legend,  written  —  who  knows  when? 
To  explain  the  short  life  of  a  willow  tree. 

Once  her  mirth  died,  and  for  a  little  while 
She  talked  of  childhood  in  black  Dudley  streets, 
Of  frowsy  slatterns,  cops,  and  drunken  men ; 
And  how,  one  day,  she  watched  gay  caravans 


33 


THE  TEAMP  GIBL 

Battling  through  town  and  saw  the  gipsy  folk 
Happy  and  brown,  in  ragged  gaudery. 

That  was  the  end  of  grimy  brick  and  stone  — 
A  short  week  later  she  was  cuddled  close 
Among  the  bilberry  brush  of  Lickey  Hills. 

Then  her  mood  changed;  she  whistled  like  a  lark 

And  burst  into  a  ditty  of  the  day 

Not  two  weeks  out  of  London  —  changed  again 

And  sang  as  sweet  and  pure  a  lullaby 

As  ever  crooned  a  baby  into  sleep. 

Slowly  the  shadows  lengthened  through  the  valley; 
The  wind  died  down,  until  a  drowsy  calm 
Drifted  upon  us  in  late  afternoon : 

And  she  ceased  singing,  but  went  on  and  on 
With  tales  of  wandering  — 

Into  Somerset 

And  lovely  Devon,  where  pink  apple-bloom 
Drifts  through  May  sunshine,  and  old  hawthorn  trees 
Shake  down  their  petal  clouds  in  grassy  lanes. 

But  when  she  spoke  of  the  sea  I  hid  my  eyes 
And  hardly  heard ;  because  I  saw  white  sails 
Coming  and  going,  as  ever  in  my  dreams, 
And  felt  the  salt  sea-blood  within  my  veins 
Pulsing  to  England's  stubborn  heritage. 

And  when  the  Autumn  dark  was  almost  falling, 
And  trooping  from  all  directions,  pickers  came 
Down  to  the  weighing  place ;  when  sieves  were  piled 
And,  trudging  lane  and  road,  the  village  folk 
Went  home  to  lighted  windows  —  then  I  looked 
For  my  dear  wanderer;  called,  and  called  again, 


34 


THE  TKAMP  GIRL 

And  did  not  find  her  in  the  grassy  lane 

Where  she  had  sworn  —  between  kisses  —  she  would  be ; 

And  never  found  her : 

God !  what  passionate  grief 
Swept  me  and  seared  me  all  the  haunted  night 
That  set  my  feet  upon  the  final  road 
Where,  until  death,  the  free  go  gipsying. 


35 


LAST  LOAD  HOME 

Through  the  darkening  hawthorn  lanes 
Come  the  rolling,  groaning  wains 
With  heavy  horses  plodding  on  — 
Like  steeds  that  tread  the  paths  of  Doom  • 
"Last  load  home  —  Last  load  home — " 
Hay  and  maids  and  meadow  bloom, 
And  brown-faced  men  that  tramp  along 
To  a  rare  old  pagan  song 
That  thunders  through  the  falling  gloam. 

Slowly  comes  the  summer  moon 
And  peers  into  the  scented  shadows, 
Into  sweet  and  ancient  meadows 
Where  the  ghostly  mists  arise, 
Till  up  and  down  the  Koman  road 
The  silver  tangle  shifts  and  quivers 
Like  the  light  of  magic  rivers 
Flowing  through  a  haunted  land : 

It  creeps  upon  the  swaying  load 
And  on  and  ever  on  it  follows 
Over  hills  and  through  deep  hollows 
Where  the  song  is  like  old  bells 
Echoing  in  deserted  shrines, 
And  ringing  down  forgotten  wells 
Where  the  moonlight  never  shines. 

The  harness  jingles  measuredly, 
The  whiffle-trees  and  wheels  complain, 
And  close  behind  with  pikes  on  shoulder 
Trudge  the  sturdy  country  men ; 
Once  the  moon,  is  dimmed  and  then 
Through  half  a  mile  of  blackened  shade 
We  pass  into  a  time  far  older  — 
Hearing  half -familiar  things  — 


LAST  LOAD  HOME 

The  crash  of  hoofs ;  the  clang  of  steel 

Beating  on  an  armored  knee, 

And  woven  chain  that  chinks  and  rings 

A  grim  barbaric  melody, 

And,  back  behind  where  pikemen  tread, 

A  steady  chant  of  drunken  song 

That  mocks  the  flesh  of  distant  dead : 

But  down  the  hill  towards  the  mill 

To  music  of  a  silvery  weir 

The  load  rolls  on,  the  song  roars  on, 

And  cottage  windows  are  aglow, 

And  through  the  gloom  the  thatched  roofs  loom 

In  a  shaggy  Saxon  row 

Beneath  the  church  tower's  Norman  frown; 

And  in  towards  the  ricks  we  go, 
Swaying  down  the  rutted  road, 
Moonlight  all  about  the  farm, 
Moonlight  on  the  spreading  elms 
And  f  airying  the  lurching  load  — 
And  through  the  chorus,  beating  slow, 
"Last  load  home  —  Last  load  home — " 
A  rhythmic  murmur  seems  to  flow 
Like  music  of  the  enchanted  loam 
That  shook  with  battle  long  ago. 


37 


OIL  OF  MAN 

(English  Folklore) 

Steal  the  skull  of  a  murdered  man 

Before  the  magical  juice  of  his  brain  be  dead ; 

And  do  it  in  windy  dark  of  a  summer  morn 

With  no  stars  overhead : 

For  if  light  shall  shine  on  the  grisly  thing 

You  hug  in  the  crook  o'  your  sleeve 

Under  your  arm  it  shall  gibber  and  dring 

And  moan  and  bitterly  grieve  — 

And  if  you  should  not  heed  its  cries 

But  still,  and  still,  go  on, 

It  shall  set  its  pale  teeth  over  your  heart 

And  suck  till  you  be  done. 

But  if  no  light  shall  shine  upon  it 
Before  you  reach  your  room, 
Then  that  thing  shall  be  sodden  and  silent 
And  you  shall  mold  its  doom. 

You  shall  bolt  your  doors  and  shutter  your  windows 

Till  all  be  tomby  still,  — 

And  take  a  dried  root  of  monkshood, 

And  sprigs  of  rue  and  gill  — 

And  burn  them  on  a  smouldering  fire 

To  thwart  the  thing's  illwill. 

You  shall  set  the  skull  in  an  oaken  clamp 
That  was  beam  of  a  gallow's  tree; 
You  shall  take  an  auger  and  slowly  bore 
Until  you  come  to  the  moldy,  damp, 
Thick-clotted  mystery. 

You  shall  scoop  it  out  with  a  weasel's  leg 
That  was  trapped  on  graveyard  soil  — 
Then  you  shall  crouch  by  the  low  red  fire 
And  chuckle  to  hear  it  boil  — 


38 


OIL  OF  MAN 

And  if  you  stir  it  more  than  thrice 
You  never  shall  get  the  oil. 

Three  dark  hours  it  shall  simmer  and  bubble 
And  you  shall  three  times  name  the  dead  — 
You  shall  three  times  name  your  trouble 
With  hands  upon  the  grisly  head  — 
Then  shall  you  take  the  cauldron  off 
And  drain  the  dreadful  stew, 
Three  times  three  through  a  silver  sieve 
Shall  pass  that  frightful  brew. 

Then,  as  it  cools,  a  glimmering  glow 
Shall  light  the  silver  pan  — 
And  you  shall  stare  and  shiver  and  mow  — 
At  sight  of  Oil  of  Man. 


39 


THE  LAND  OF  PLUMS 

This  is  the  land  of  plums :  all  England  knows 
Its  magic  beauty ;  like  a  mighty  loom 
Of  giant  fabric  changing  with  the  days. 

First  lady  elms  burst  out  in  blossoming  sprays, 
Half  buds,  half  flowers,  and  shake  their  pollen  down ; 
And  last  year's  leaves  are  tossed  about  and  whirled  — 
Along  the  sunlit  streets  of  Pershore  town. 

And  so  comes  April.    High  on  Scarry  Bank 
One  sees  red  shawls  in  lanes  of  snowy  bloom, 
Where  village  women  hoe  the  mellow  soil 
On  every  curve  and  hollow  of  the  hill 
Under  the  fleece-flocked  blue  of  laughing  skies. 

Slope  after  slope ;  as  far  as  eye  can  see ; 
From  Evesham  to  Tewkesbury,  up  and  down, 
All  Avon's  Vale  is  white  with  fairy  showers 
Of  petals  that  continually  blow 
Upon  the  vale-folk  stooping  to  their  toil. 

The  centuried  elms  of  Fladbury  rise  above 
The  Norman  church's  square  of  crumbling  stone, 
Half  hidden  in  a  maze  of  loveliness  — 
Even  upon  the  graves  pale  blossoms  press, 
As  though  through  some  slight  mystery  of  love 
That  scatters  fragrance  on  the  forgotten  dead. 

Plum  petals  in  a  laughing  girl's  brown  hair, 
Plum  petals  blowing  in  at  cottage  doors, 
Plum  petals  drifting  down  on  daffodils  — 
Sweet  petals  floating,  floating  everywhere 
In  that  white  valley  cradled  by  dark  hills. 


40 


THE  LAND  OP  PLUMS 

Autumn  is  here :  the  shocks  stand  in  stray  fields : 
The  roads  are  dim  with  dust ;  the  loaded  drays 
Forever  come  and  go. 

Fast  ripening  fruit 
Cloys  the  warm  air  in  these  ambrosial  days. 

Purple  and  yellow,  golden-scarlet,  red ; 
Soft  cloudy  bloom,  like  mist  against  warm  skies, 
Clinging  upon  the  curves  of  glowing  cheeks 
Cuddled  in  wicker  baskets  of  brown  hue  — 

Rich,  meaty,  luscious  flesh  as  ever  grew 
When  Father  Adam  wandered  Paradise ; 
Juices  like  fairy  wine  of  flowers  and  dew 
Ripened  in  caverns  where  no  mortal  eyes 
Ever  have  looked  —  nor  shall  till  mirth  is  dead. 

Somewhere  a  girl  is  singing  in  a  tree 

Perched  on  a  perilous  ladder's  topmost  rung, 

Trilling  an  olden  golden  melody 

Dear  to  the  ears  of  age,  for  it  was  sung 

In  days  when  Sweet  Nell  Gwyn  was  sorrow-free. 

In  misty  mornings  on  the  Roman  road 
You  see  the  pickers  coming,  crook  and  pail, 
And  hear  a  hundred  dialects,  with  words 
That  were  long  obsolete  in  Chaucer's  time: 
A  Glo'ster  tinker  rails  at  "thucky  wench"  — 
A  barefoot  hussy  beating  a  black  can 
And  dancing  to  a  quick  old  Lowland  rhyme. 

Her  ragged  'man'  comes  shuffling  slowly  on 
Swaying  a  wrenching,  gasping  concertina  — 
And,  by  his  hair,  it's  plain  that  he  has  been  a 
Guest  of  the  Crown  in  days  —  or  hours  —  bygone. 


41 


THE  LAND  OF  PLUMS 

By  Wyre's  low  Saxon  church,  and  by  the  Cross, 
Jangles  and  bangs  a  yellow  caravan, 
Filling  the  street  with  war  of  pot  and  pan 
Until  it  halts  beneath  a  giant  elm 
Just  opposite  the  moss-roofed  village  inn. 

(This  was  where  Holland  —  Gipsy  King  of  yore 
Sent  his  fist  crashing  through  an  oaken  door.) 

After  September  things  will  settle  down : 
Riot  of  picking-time  a  worn-out  story, 
The  rag-scum  will  have  drifted  back  to  town 
And  left  the  valley  to  its  Autumn  glory. 

And  then  the  land  will  give  its  soul  again 
To  quiet  brooding :  last  wet  leaves  will  fall, 
Till,  like  a  gentle  curtain  over  all, 
Will  droop  the  creeping  mists,  the  silent  rain. 


42 


THE  CAROL  SINGERS 

About  the  middle  day  of  Christmas  week, 

Often  when  evening  lights  shone  through  soft  rain, 

We  used  to  gather  in  our  muddy  lane 

Just  where  it  joins  the  pebbly  village  street, 

Under  the  vast  thatch  of  an  ancient  barn. 

In  lowered  tones,  not  shrill,  nor  quite  discreet, 

We  village  plagues  would  plan  our  wailing  way, 

Discussing  who  was  easily  made  sore 

By  untrained  banshees  howling  at  his  door; 

Who  kept  a  terrier  —  unimpeachable  — 

And  who  had  apples  still  in  winter  store ; 

Who  'd  give  us  cake  and  who  would  hand  out  pence 

And  what  the  outcome  if  we  gave  offence 

By  visiting  the  same  place  twice  an  hour. 

Oh,  well ;  we  'd  start.    The  blacksmith 's  house  was  first 
And  four  of  us  would  treat  him  to  'Noel'  — 
Misplacing  aitches  to  a  curious  end  — 
"No-hell-1,  No-hell, 

No-hell-1,  No-hell—" 

And  yet  the  blacksmith  was  our  faithful  friend 
And  why  on  earth  we  should  have  done  our  worst 
Only  the  fiend  that  tickles  boys  can  tell. 

(He  had  great  love  of  melody  and  was  wont 

When  through  the  village  church  his  praise  was  poured 

In  mighty  thundering  music  to  the  Lord 

To  shake  down  plaster  on  the  baptismal  font.) 

Bless  that  good  man's  good-temper;  never  boot 
Firewood,  or  coal,  or  curses  came  our  way, 
And  so  we  'd  leave  him  to  his  evening  peace 
And  seek  the  farm  of  one  who  had  been  soured 
By  too  much  cider  and  too  little  song. 


43 


THE  CAROL  SINGERS 

This  was  the  domicile  of  Old  Man  Gray 

Who  had  not  mellowed  in  his  autumn  ease 

Only  as  does  the  crab-tree 's  acid  fruit ; 

And,  though  we  hardly  thought  that  it  would  pay, 

We  sought  to  cheer  him  as  we  went  along. 

Therefore  we  chanted  out  an  olden  tale 

That  he  had  maundered  long,  long  years  before 

After  a  gallon  of  some  neighbor's  ale. 

Something  about  a  rabbit  he  had  stalked 

Bound  and  around  his  barn  one  winter-time 

And  time,  and  time,  and  time  again  been  balked ; 

Until  he  'scrotched'  his  head  and  cackled  glee 

And  bent  the  barrel  of  his  trusty  gun 

To  a  right  angle  —  did  it  with  his  knee  — 

And  then  he'd  stealthily,  to  give  no  sign, 

Fitted  it  neatly  round  the  corner-stun 

And  killed  that  rabbit,  shot  clean  round  the  barn 

And  hit  'his  own  self  in  the  lower  spine. 

(The  old  man  had  learned  wisdom.    Rest  assured 
He  made  no  sign  whatever  he  endured.) 

Then  we  'd  go  on  and  try  the  village  store 
And  sometimes  we  would  be  invited  in 
And  given  ancient  biscuits  from  a  tin 
That  had  been  in  its  place  ten  years  or  more : 
Oh,  she  was  wise,  that  widow,  wise  as  sin ; 
If  anything  could  quell  our  hideous  din 
'Twas  that  dry  gift  —  as  stubborn  as  a  door. 

And  now  we  'd  reach  the  gate  of  an  old  house 
With  carved  black  eave-boards,  thatch  and  diamond 

panes 

And  wattle-plaster  walls  squared  by  great  beams  — 
For  we  were  not  so  far  from  Shakespere's  home 

44 


THE  CAROL  SINGERS 

Where  Will  was  wont  to  revel  and  carouse  — 
In  fact  one  imp  preserved  the  revered  name. 

Then  would  be  heard  the  too  familiar  strains 
Of  that  old  carol  —  dear  to  English  ears  — 
"Whi-il  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night 

All  seated  on  the  grou-ound  —  " 
And  next  would  come  loud  scraping  on  a  floor 
And  voices  cursing  heart  and  soul  and  brains 
Of  us  dear  children  singing  at  their  door. 

Oh,  vile  ingratitude :  we  brought  them  song 
And  were  rewarded  by  unleashed  abuse  — 
We  fled,  and  met  again,  and  wailed  our  hate, 
And  howled  a  version  that  the  ribald  use. 

"  Whi-il  shepherds  watched  their  turnip-tops 
All  bilin'  in  the  po-ot, 
A  lump  o'  soot  came  rolling  down 
A-and  spoiled  the  jol-ly  lot." 

One  day  the  rector  caught  us  singing  that : 
'Twas  well  for  us  His  Reverence  was  fat. 

By  now  we'd  be  in  mood  for  further  wrong 

And  when  —  'Come,  let  us  adore  Him — '  failed  to 

please 

The  village  cobbler,  we  could  change  with  ease 
To  other  words  and  accompaniment  as  strong  — 
"Oh,  come  let  us  kick  the  door  in  — 
Oh,  come  let  us  kick  the  door  in." 

But  that  would  bring  a  chase,  so  we'd  disperse 
Down  foggy  paths  and  meet  at  Eobinhood  — 
The  dead  know  how  that  corner  got  its  name  — 
And  somewhere  by  the  church  we'd  hear  a  curse 
And  then  a  woman 's  voice  — ' '  Why,  Jim,  for  shame. 

45 


THE  CABOL  SINGERS 

But  when  we  stood  by  Goody  Barton's  gate 
Only  the  minstrel  three  who  sang  in  choir 
Lifted  their  voices  in,  a  Christmas  hymn 
As  sweet  and  holy  as  the  angels  know ; 
And  when  the  old  lady  came  her  eyes  were  dim, 
Her  lips  were  quivering,  and  she  trembled  so 
She  scarce  could  fill  our  hands  from  a  great  plate 
Heaped  with  the  toothsome  stuffs  that  boys  desire. 

And  when  we  trooped  into  the  road  again 
There  was  the  cobbler  —  saying  'he  had  heard 
Us  singing,  and  it  minded  him  of  birds 
Singing  in  the  plum-trees  after  rain  — 
His  missis  wasn't  well,  and  couldn't  stir, 
So  would  we  come  along  and  sing  for  her!' 

Of  course  we  went  —  perhaps  a  trifle  shamed  — 
And  sang  our  hearts  out  and  refused  all  fee 
And  sympathised  with  them  because  some  rogues 
Had  been  around  there  doing  deviltry. 

Then  we'd  go  home,  all  munching,  yet  lamenting 
One  thing;  the  absence  of  delightful  snow, 
Most  needful  to  a  game  of  our  inventing 
Which  was,  to  make  great  balls  and  then  to  throw 
These  high  above  the  chimney-pots  until 
One  fell  inside  and,  plunging  down  the  flue, 
Squashed  on  the  hearth-fire  twenty  feet  below. 

Heavens !  how  I  recall  the  hullabaloo 

When  one  dropped  into  Granny  Harding 's  stew. 


46 


NIGHT  MOODS 


47 


THE  OLD  GODS  MARCH 

The  grim  gods  of  the  past  have  arisen, 
The  black  swamps  throb  and  the  mountains  boom 
And  the  dust  from  their  iron-sandalled  feet 
Shrouds  the  sun  in  a  blood-red  gloom : 
Out  of  the  Northern  mountain  passes 
Flame  the  banners  and  glare  the  swords, 
The  old  gods  march  from  their  wild  morasses, 
The  old  gods  march  with  their  ancient  hordes, 
With  scarlet  banners  and  songs  of  death; 
From  marshes  white  with  the  bitter  brine 
The  boar-herds  gather,  the  wolf -clans  whine 
Till  the  land  is  foul  with  their  steaming  breath : 
And  the  old  gods  bellow,  the  old  gods  roar, 
And  the  hills  shake  and  the  grey  seas  rave, 
For  the  old  gods  march  with  a  thundering  tread 
Whose  echoes  thrill  in  the  nether  wave, 
Shaking  the  bones  of  a  myriad  dead 
As  in  red  days  of  yore. 

Glare  of  torches  in  dead  men's  eyes 
And  black  nights  lit  by  towns  aflare, 
And  things  of  horror  and  claws  that  tear, 
And  reeking  rivers  that  bloodily  rise 
To  the  old  gods'  tempest  blare. 

Banners  black  with  the  blood  and  smoke 
High  in  the  eddying  battle  van, 
And  great  swords  red  with  the  murder-stroke, 
And  torches  aflame  as  the  night  comes  on  — 
For  the  old  gods  march  in  the  shame  of  man, 
The  old  gods  march  —  sweet  days  are  done  — 
The  fires  of  home  or  the  fires  of  hate! 
There  is  no  choice  in  the  wide  world  —  none  — 
But  we  must  stand  where  the  old  gods  tread, 
In  ranks  of  steel,  and  steady  and  grim 
Chanting  the  sweet,  wild  battle-hymn 
That  the  old  gods  hate  and  dread. 

49 


PASSING  OF  THE  MAD  SINGEES 

In  the  curve  of  a  glooming  cape  we  huddled  and  shivered 

and  peered 

Seeing  the  grey  souls  of  the  Mad  Singers  embark 
From  a  dimly  luminous  shore,  unsteadily  shifting  and 

weird 
And  hearing  forever  a  voice  far-thundering  into  the 

dark-— 

'  '  Out !    Shove  out  of  the  bay !  the  gales  are  heaving  the 

main; 
We  will  ride  the  crashing  ridges  through  black  sheets  of 

driving  rain, 
We  will  swing  and  glide  in  the  dark  curves  of  the  grim 

sea  valleys  again. 

6 1  On !  with  might  of  madness  and  gasping  glory  of  power ! 
The  harp  of  the  tides  is  under  our  hands ;  it  throbs  and 

thunders  of  unknown  lands, 
And  the  moon  drifts  and  sways  and  lifts  like  a  wet  pallid 

flower. 

' '  Swing  her  prow  on  a  savage  course  till  the  South  stars 

flutter  and  fade ; 
The  Pagan  lore  was  a  flame  of  truth  in  the  world-life's 

icy  shade  — 
For  a  god  pulls  at  our  plunging  sail  till  the  smoking  ropes 

are  frayed." 

And  the  howling  winds  of  the  world  tore  at  the  skies  and 

sea 

All  under  the  far-away  glow  of  a  mounting  moon, 
And  we  saw  their  black  prow  lift  like  a  chained  Thing 

breaking  free 
And  heard  from  out  of  the  wrath  faint  notes  of  an  old 

mad  tune. 


50 


A  MIDNIGHT  SONG 

I  shall  go  mad  at  last  through  too  much  dreaming, 
With  fret  and  stress  of  this  insatiate  brain, 
Burst  clinging  bond  and  dully  clanging  chain 
And  pass  to  some  far  land  with  mad  folk  teeming: 

There  azure  fields  shall  heave  with  golden  roses 
Beneath  white  skies  that  know  not  sun  nor  moon, 
Yet,  with  the  boisterous  winds  of  afternoon, 
Great  purple  stars  shall  shade  what  sleep  uncloses. 

There  shall  be  ruby  ponds  a-drunk  with  plunder 
Of  silver  lilies  roseate  to  their  stain, 
And  drowsing  leaves  half-dead  with  that  they  drain, 
And  milk-white  fishes  swimming  those  leaves  under. 

There  shall  be  paths  of  ice  through  molten  mazes, 
Black  mountain  peaks  up-tilting  that  pale  sky, 
And  strange  new  fields  with  coins  of  gold  heaped  high 
That  breed  and  seed  beneath  rich  crimson  hazes. 

There  shall  be  cliffs  that  front  not  foaming  surges 

But  lip  the  cleft  whence  greening  vapor  rolls, 

Foul  with  a  myriad  years  of  rotting  souls 

And  slow,  sick  winds  weighed  down  by  freight  of  dirges : 

Ay,  sinking  lands  and  breaths  of  burning  waters, 
And  lakes  of  blood  —  wherein  I  shall  bathe  long  — 
Float  to  the  weaving  of  this  midnight  song 
To  which,  near  soon,  shall  dance  the  madmen 's  daughters. 


51 


A  WINTER  GALE 

A  gale  roars  from  the  sea  and  the  hollow  valleys  are 

booming, 
The  black  wrack  of  the  storm  leaps  out  and  harries  the 

flying  moon, 
The  wind  is  like  the  thrust  of  Fate  that  forces  Man  to  his 

dooming 
And,  from  some  tangled  ocean  floor,  to  the  weeds  and 

wash  of  a  dim  white  shore 
Grey  things  creep  up,  grey  things  creep  out,  and  hunch 

themselves  and  croon. 

There  is  sound  of  feet  on  the  lonely  beaches  where  sane 

men  never  tread, 
And  a  stealthy  noise  of  clashing  teeth  that  turns  the  flesh 

to  snow; 
And  weird  light  glows  and  comes  and  goes  like  lamps  that 

lead  the  dead 
Through  awful  caverns  of  deep  gloom  in  the  vast  dead 

depths  below. 

And  above  are  the  mighty  winds  that  tear  an  ancient  song 

from  the  sea, 
A  terrible  song,  a  secret  song,  that  wise  men  hear  —  and 

die  — 
A  growling  chant  of  the  marching  tides,  a  dirge  and  a 

prophecy 

Of  glorious  golden  ages  drowned  and  gone  as  leaves  go  by, 
And  splendor  of  red  days  to  come  before  the  world  wins 

free. 

A  heaving  hope  and  a  damning  dread  are  riding  the 

racing  wrack, 
A  surging  drone  and  a  driven  moan  comes  out  of  a  rift 

where  stars  are  sown, 
There  is  horror  adrift  in  that  star-flecked  rift  that  lifts 

from  the  savage  ranges, 

52 


A  WINTER  GALE 

There  is  terror  stark  in  the  haunted  dark  that  swoops 

when  the  dim  glow  changes, 
As  the  swift  moon  swings  from  vampire  wings  that  hunt 

in  her  ghostly  track. 

A  wild  cry  in  the  thundering  woods  that  answer  the  bel- 
lowing wave, 

And  a  weird  wail  in  the  sweep  of  the  gale  like  a  thin  song 
of  the  grave, 

A  thin  tune  of  a  bitter  thing  that  creeps  where  sick  men 
rave: 

And  the  sea  calls  as  the  moon  falls  and  the  world  gathers 
gloom, 

And  on  the  beach  those  grey  things  screech  their  jests  of 
mortal  doom. 


53 


THE  BOGGING  OF  DEATH 

All  in  a  gloomy  wood 

By  Wur's  morass 
And  in  the  black  rain  I  stood, 

For  Death  to  pass. 

I  heard  the  hour  of  ten 
From  far  clocks  boomed, 

Then  all  grew  still  again, 
By  night  entombed. 

The  heavy  fir  boughs  dripped 

On  my  bare  head; 
The  unseen  leaves  I  gripped 

Seemed  drowned  with  dread. 

And  shiv'ring  with  desire 

And  crouching  low, 
I  saw  Wur's  eyes  of  fire 

Dance  to  and  fro. 

I  knew  the  tarn's  green  edge 

Whereby  they  glowed, 
Where  runs  through  withered  sedge 

A  haunted  road : 

And  shuddering  with  hate 

I  knew  the  spot 
Where  my  love  plucked  of  late 

Forget-me-not ; 

And,  dank  with  horror's  dews, 

Again  my  eyes 
Saw  through  the  bubbling  ooze 

A  white  hand  rise : 


54 


THE  BOGGING  OF  DEATH 

And  through  thin  lips  my  breath 

Like  poison  came, 
And  for  the  throat  of  Death 

I  leaned  aflame. 

I  heard  that  old  fool's  feet 

Squelch  in  soft  sod, 
And  rustling  sedges  greet 

His  groping  rod. 

Then  from  a  sudden  rift 

The  wild,  wet  moon 
Through  heaven  seemed  to  drift, 

With  cold  a-swoon. 

And  as  she  cleft  the  night 

I  leapt  and  clasped 
Death's  form  with  such  delight 

That  my  heart  gasped. 

I  tore  from  his  white  bones 

The  sombre  cloak, 
With  laughter  for  his  groans 

The  gaunt  ribs  broke : 

By  those  grim  sockets  deep, 

Where  never  eyes 
Drooped  with  the  bliss  of  sleep, 

I  dragged  my  prize 

Through  mists,  of  poison  bred, 

To  that  green  spot 
Where  my  love  gathered 

Forget-me-not. 

There,  where  all  treacheries  lie, 

Death  sank  in  slime, 
And  until  morning  I 

And  Wur  made  rhyme. 

55 


THE  SINGING  SKULL 

Golden  glowing  the  high  crags  shone, 
Somewhere,  far,  a  slow  bell  rang, 
And  this  was  in  a  grim  ravine 
Where  every  rock  was  like  a  fang  — 
My  Love  picked  up  a  splintered  skull 
And  this  is  what  it  sang  — 

"Dribble  and  drool  —  the  world  is  old, 
The  dead  are  better  off  by  far  — 
For  I  am  one  who  lived  in  war, 
And  who  should  better  know  than  I?  — 
Wisdom  drips  from  the  lips  of  a  fool  — 
Eather  drops  from  rotting  jaws  — 
And  this  is  as  the  Law  of  laws  — 
Dribble  and  drool  —  dribble  and  drool. 

"From  darkness  of  the  eternal  mold 
The  flowers  push  up,  the  flowers  unfold, 
From  muck  of  earth  come  beauty  rare  — 
Dribble  and  drool  —  dribble  and  drool  — 
When  did  Beauty  last  for  long? 
I  have  seen  the  singer  die 
As  rang  the  first  chord  of  his  song  — 
His  pean  that  should  glorify 
The  fields  of  earth  and  vanquish  care. 

"Dribble  and  drool  —  above  him  now 
The  farmer  drives  his  shrieking  plow ; 
The  heavy  hoof -beats  boom  above 
A  brain  that  was  the  cup  of  love  — 
Dribble  and  drool  —  dribble  and  drool : 
His  brain  lives  on!    His  love  lives  on! 
Oh !  in  some  dusty  library 
With  un-cut  leaves  a  volume  lies 
That,  some  Spring  day,  a  girl  may  prize  - 
For  daintiness  of  looks  maybe. 


56 


THE  SINGING  SKULL 

"Dribble  and  drool  —  dribble  and  drool  — 
This  is  a  skull  that  once  held  song : 
I  was  a  singer  and  I  sang 
Of  woe  and  bitter,  senseless  wrong; 
And  high  and  higher  my  voice  rang 
In  tones  of  One  they  crucified, 
And  women  heard  with  sympathy, 
But  —  men  brought  that  same  bloody  tree 
And  nailed  me  on  it  —  and  —  I  died. 

"Dribble  and  drool  —  What  matter  now? 
The  loose  teeth  rattle  in  my  jaws ; 
I  raised  a  banner  for  a  Cause, 
I  poured  my  blood  to  bloat  a  sow. 
The  drums  of  Freedom  roared  and  rolled, 
We  hailed  the  dawn  of  Liberty, 
We  saw  the  tattered  banners  fold 
Above  great  piles  of  bloody  staves  — 
Dribble  and  drool  —  A  century  — 
And  who  are  freemen!    Who  are  slaves? 

"Dribble  and  drool —  (Oh!  hideous  eyes!) 
And  you  would  follow  where  I  fell! 
Go  down  to  black  oblivion 
That  is  the  Singer's  nether  hell: 
Meet  flouts  and  jeers  with  song  and  pride 
While  Justice  hangs  her  heavy  blade 
Upon  her  scales  and  tips  the  side 
Wherein  all  woes  of  Earth  are  laid. 

"Dribble  and  drool  —  I  know  the  dream; 
It  beckons  and  the  Singer  goes. 
It  is  the  Light,  it  is  the  Gleam 
That  every  fettered  spirit  knows ; 
The  glamor  of  a  deathless  hope 
That  out-lives  shame  and  pain  and  scorn, 


57 


THE  SINGING  SKULL 

The  radiance  from  a  land  that  glows 
With  glory  of  eternal  morn. 

'  *  Oh,  Singers !    Earth  may  be  reborn  — 
Dribble  and  drool  —  But  —  I  am  dead. 
By  you  rich  chaplets  may  be  worn  — 
But  —  lay  me  in  a  lonelier  bed : 
Whereon  no  tyrant  foot  shall  tread, 
Wherein  no  moan  may  penetrate  — 
For  I  am  sick  with  bitter  thoughts 
Of  creeping  men  that  live  by  hate." 

The  crags  above  were  gray  and  cold, 
It  was  a  dread  and  desolate  land ; 
I  turned  to  my  fair  love,  and  she  — 
Oh,  God !  was  all  in  rags  and  old. 
The  skull  dropped  from  her  withered  hand, 
It  crashed  upon  the  awful  ground, 
And  those  mad  jaws  clashed  out  again 
The  Unknown  Singer's  last  refrain  — 
4  *  Dribble  and  drool  —  dribble  and  drool  — 
Wisdom  drips  from  the  lips  of  a  fool." 


58 


A  SONG  OF  DARK  HOURS 

Oh,  Death,  come  soon  — 

I  am  too  sick  of  waiting 

Through  sleepless  nights  of  horror  and  of  dread  — 

Oh,  Death,  come  soon: 

Let  me  be  gone  before  another  June 
Fills  this  mad  world  with  fragrance  of  its  roses; 
Let  me  lie  still  where  human  dust  reposes 
Under  the  changing  light  of  sun  and  moon. 

Come,  clad  in  ivory  robes  of  bridal  beauty, 
I  am  so  weary  of  this  whirling  brain 
That  night  and  day  beats  out  a  dirge  of  duty 
Through  murderous  hours  of  pain. 

Oh,  Shining  Love,  with  the  white  clinging  fingers 
That  close  the  eyes  in  peace  of  lasting  sleep, 
Fondle  my  hair,  my  brow,  till  I  am  deep 
In  that  long  slumber  where  no  memory  lingers. 

Here,  in  the  dark,  as  in  a  bridal  chamber, 
I  lie  with  arms  outstretched  and  open  eyes ; 
I  have  long  known  the  haunted  path  that  lies 
To  your  abode,  and  heard  thereon  a  tune 
Wailing  that  wisdom  is  the  shrine  of  fools. 

I  have  known  passion  like  a  searing  flame, 
Felt  Love's  hot  bosom  crushed  against  my  own, 
I  have  known  wandering  nights  of  raging  shame 
And  gripped  red  hands  in  darkness  —  and  —  alone  • 
Have  bowed  me  down  before  the  altar-stone 
Of  bloody  hate  —  in  hells  that  I  have  known  — 
Oh,  Death,  come  soon. 


59 


A  SONG  OF  DARK  HOUBS 

Let  me  be  done,  this  night  of  madness  passes ; 
The  light  beyond  the  window-panes  is  grey; 
I  shall  be  silent  when  the  break  of  day 
Euffles  among  dried  weeds  and  lifeless  grasses 
Would  that  my  sap  had  gone  the  selfsame  way  - 
Oh,  Death  —  Oh,  Death  —  come  soon. 


60 


THE  GALES  OF  AUTUMN  AEE  COMING 

The  great  gales  of  Autumn  are  coming  — 

Bend,  trees ;  bow  to  your  sorrow : 

Fly,  red  leaves,  —  you  die  tomorrow  — 

The  gales  of  Autumn  are  coming: 

They  have  tossed  and  rolled  and  smashed  the  sea 

Till  the  sinking  sun  has  bloodied  a  mad  commotion ; 

Only  the  vulture  keeps  the  sky 

With  straining  wings  and  flaming  eye  — 

Foul,  ragged  ghoul  of  the  darkening  ocean. 

Woe  and  chill  on  a  shrouded  earth  descending 
And  a  nameless  fear  that  steals  with  breath  foreboding, 
A  creeping  whisper  of  death  with  love's  dreams  blending, 
A  scattered  rust  that  blows  for  the  heart's  corroding. 

The  air  is  filled  with  a  distant  drumming 
Of  far  birds  beating  southward  fast, 
The  world  is  filled  with  roaring  and  humming 
Of  far  winds  thundering  blast  on  blast 
Through  groaning  gulches  of  northern  ranges : 
Ho !  pines  that  have  strangled  the  rocks,  hold  fast ! 
The  clouds  are  mad,  the  whole  world  changes, 
The  great  gales  of  Autumn  are  coming. 


61 


THE  FLEETS  OP  DOOM 

Dark,  booming  beaches  under  evil  skies, 
Clouds  torn  by  the  wind  and  the  world  a 'roar, 
And  fearful  outlines  heaving  to  far  thunder, 
And  all  the  West  aflare  with  yellow  light ; 
And  vast  grey  monsters  riding  seas  of  wonder 
Against  the  gloom  of  night  — 

And,  sweeping  down  the  mighty  tidal  surges, 
Froth-kissed  as  ever  it  veers, 
A  weird  wind  wailing  olden  ocean  dirges 
For  souls  of  the  buccaneers : 

For  bones  of  the  buccaneers 

That  lie  in  the  Southern  and  Northern  seas, 

For  the  wave  has  a  love  of  savagery 

And  reeking  victories : 

And  the  wave 's  deep  love  for  raging  men 

And  flame  and  clamor  of  grappling  ships 

Is  told  in  the  ceaseless  miracle  song 

That  rolls  from  her  hungry  lips. 

******* 

Then,  sateless  vampire,  thunder  thanks  at  last : 
Our  blood  must  glut  you,  for  the  despairing  shore, 
Eiven  and  drenched  by  war's  red-dripping  blast, 
Whispers  to  heaven  that  it  can  hold  no  more. 
Stifle  all  greedy  murmur :  you  shall  be 
Eimmed  with  rich  floods  that  shall  out-glare  the  suns, 
You  shall  be  poppy  steeped  with  that  which  we 
Pour  from  the  giant  lips  of  roaring  guns : 

For,  in  dread  harbors  where  your  slow  tides  tremble 
Under  the  cold  grey  glances  of  the  day, 
The  grimly  stark  leviathans  assemble 


62 


FLEETS  OF  DOOM 


In  battle-stripped  array; 
And  in  them  slumbers  pride  of  mighty  sorrow, 
And  round  them  rolls  the  heavy  breath  of  Fate, 
And  every  hour  holds  promise  of  dread  morrow 
And  devastating  hate. 


63 


LUKE  OF  LIGHT 

The  grey  seas  heave  and  roar  and  sway 
Under  a  dim  cloud-shrouded  moon, 
And  the  mad  white  froth  of  an  evil  bay 
Flashes  across  our  lantern  glow : 

And  Death's  grim  hands  grip  hard  below 
At  mortared  seams  of  the  yieldless  stone 
While  his  voice  in  a  low  continuous  thunder 
Tells  the  passing  of  all  things  known  — 
Tolls  all  wisdom  and  dirges  wonder 
And  chants  of  Beauty's  burial  under 
Oblivion's  starless  snow. 

Out  of  the  grey  night  sea-birds  blow 
And  smash  their  wings  on  the  lantern  glass ; 
Lured  from  the  blackness  of  sea-wastes 
By  hope  of  sunlight  on  green  grass 
By  shores  where  tepid  currents  flow. 

And  even  so  —  and  even  so  — 

We  smash  our  souls  and  fluttering  fall  : 

Youth  and  beauty  and  wisdom,  all 

That  wings  from  out  of  the  stormy  waste  — 

We  seek  for  a  light,  we  seek  a  glow  — 

We  ask  what  only  the  dead  may  know  — 

And,  whirling  on  with  hope  and  haste, 

We  smash  ourselves  on  an  unseen  glass  — 

And  like  the  crippled  birds  we  go  — 
Dust  of  chaos,  blindly  blown, 
We  crash  and  fall  to  the  mad  seas  under 
While  Death  with  low  continuous  thunder 
Chants  the  passing  of  all  things  known. 


64 


DAWN-LIGHT 


65 


WHEN  YOU  HAVE  DREAMED  YOUE 
DREAM  — 

When  you  have  dreamed  your  dream  of  fame  and  power 

And,  wakening,  find  it  life's  late  afternoon, 

And  know  that  labor  will  be  done  with  soon 

And  that  your  hope  is  like  a  wilting  bower ; 

Rise  from  the  agony  of  that  bitter  hour 

And  force  a  smile  and  hum  a  wilful  tune 

Of  bygone  nights  beneath  a  magic  moon 

When  every  sweet  May  meadow  was  in  flower. 

So  shall  you  come  at  last  to  day's  black  end 
And  foot  the  gloomy  path  that  none  retrace, 
And  laugh,  because  lost  loveliness  walks  beside; 
And  those  who  follow  on  the  way  you  wend 
Shall  look  upon  your  carelessness  of  face 
And  mould  their  days  to  die  as  you  have  died. 


67 


CERAMICS 

I  had  made  pause  between  two  dusty  shelves 

Before  a  smoldering  glory  of  rich  glaze, 

A  plum-bloomed  purple  thing  without  design. 

Ming?    Oh,  how  the  devil  do  I  know! 

Only,  before  me  sailed  a  fleet  of  junks 

With  lateen  sails  hard  cut  against  the  moon, 

And  white  plum  blossoms  swirled  like  fragrant  snow 

Against  my  face,  and  someone  had  my  hand 

And  tapped  it  lightly  with  a  bamboo  fan. 

There  was  a  golden  window  on  before 
With  purple  lanterns  swaying  in  its  glow, 
And,  somewhere  near,  a  shingly  river  shore 
Tinkling  with  music  of  a  myriad  shells, 
And  from  some  grove  of  jade  a  nightingale 
Mingled  his  notes  with  those  of  far-off  bells 
Ringing,  it  seemed,  from  lands  of  long  ago. 

And  then,  behind  me  came  some  devotees 
Eaving  of  Sevres,  Delft,  and  Cloisonne ; 
Mouthing  of  Paris  and  a  thousand  things 
That  trouble  art  — . 

And  so  I  lost  my  dream 
Just  as  the  spreading  of  its  rainbow  wings 
Was  sweeping  me  to  mystery  of  Cathay 
Over  the  silver  froth  of  magic  seas. 


68 


FROM  A  GARDENER  TO  A  POTTER 

We  two  have  handled  earth  so  much 
And  won  such  beauty  from  its  mass 
That  we  shall  scarcely  fear  its  touch 
When  Fate  may  nod  and  bid  us  pass. 

Eather,  the  clay  and  brave  brown  mold 
Will  wrap  us  warm  and  work  goodwill 
Until  a  thousand  Springs  have  rolled 
Through  the  Great  Potter's  grinding  mill; 

Then  we  shall  stir  and  slowly  rise 
And  feel  the  sun  and  wind  and  rain, 
And  thrill  with  glory  of  blue  skies 
We  had  not  thought  to  know  again. 

And  I  shall  live  in  grass  and  flowers, 
Because  I  loved  them  long  ago, 
And  drink  my  fill  of  silver  showers 
And  sway  to  all  the  winds  that  blow : 

And  you?    Your  fame  for  many  a  day 
Will  fire  the  art  of  older  lands, 
A  wondrous  thing  of  perfect  clay 
Made  by  a  master-craftsman's  hands. 


THE  SMITHY  ABOVE  THE  MOON 

Oh,  God  is  beating  on  his  anvil 

In  His  smithy  above  the  moon, 

And  the  star-sparks  fly  in  fountain  showers 

And  some  are  souls  and  some  are  flowers 

And  some  are  chords  of  a  tune. 

An  angel  bends  to  the  bellows 

And  he  puffs  up  golden  clouds, 

And  some  float  off  through  an  amber  glow 

And  some  drift  down  to  the  worlds  below, 

And  some  are  angel  shrouds. 

And  the  roof  of  the  smithy  is  purple 
And  its  rafters  are  of  gold, 
And  the  fire  of  the  forge  forever  is  fed 
From  a  blazing  heap  of  rubies  red 
That  it  may  never  be  cold. 

God's  hammer  is  clanging  on  the  anvil  — 
He  is  calling  up  the  souls  of  men  — 
To  left  of  the  moon  where  the  light  is  dim 
You  can  see  them  drifting  up  to  Him 
To  be  remade  again. 

And  He  will  bring  them  to  the  anvil 

In  a  hissing  silver  flame, 

And  His  blows  shall  shower  them  over  the  floor 

Until  they  fall  to  the  Earth  once  more 

And  magnify  His  name. 

Oh !  hear  the  ringing  of  the  anvil 

Where  the  God-Smith  beats  above, 

For  His  blows  are  the  pulse  of  mortal  fate  — 

And  some  men  swear  that  He  toils  in  hate  — 

And  —  some  —  that  He  toils  in  love. 


70 


TO  A  PARAKEET 

Gabriel,  I  say  —  look  well, 

For  something  I  have  loved  with  tears 

Is  seeking  Heaven 's  forestry. 

You  will  know  it,  Gabriel, 
By  its  plumage  golden-green, 
Like  a  sunbeam  on  green  grass ; 
You  will  know  it,  Gabriel, 
And  when  it  comes  to  Heaven's  gates 
Will  smile  and  softly  bid  it  pass 
Into  God 's  valleys  of  sweet  bowers 
And  singing  leaves  and  blowing  flowers. 

But,  Gabriel,  when  dusk  draws  near  — 

The  purple  veil  that  is  not  night  — 

And  the  great  silver  stars  look  down 

Upon  a  host  of  folded  wings, 

Go  softly,  that  he  may  not  fear, 

And  coax  him  to  your  shoulder  white 

And  still  his  sleepy  twitterings  — 

For,  Gabriel,  I  think  that  he 

Will  miss  my  love  and  —  even  in  Heaven  — 

May  droop  and  pine  for  me : 

And,  Gabriel,  the  shy  wild  things 

Of  wood  and  hill  that  I  have  wept ; 

Bright  eyes,  brown  fur,  and  flashing  wings, 

Have  they  not  into  Heaven  crept 

And  made  their  home  in  some  green  dell 

Where  I  may  find  them,  Gabriel? 

For  I  have  loved  with  passionate 
Love,  till  I  think  —  though  red  with  sin  — 
Christ  for  their  sakes  would  swing  the  gate 
Of  Heaven  and,  weeping,  wave  me  in. 


71 


BIKDS  THAT  CLEAVE  THE  SHADOWS 

Turquoise  tints  in  the  heart  of  a  golden  rose, 

Carmine  fire  in  a  cool  white  lily  cup; 

Something  blown  from  out  of  the  sun-drenched  vales 

Of  an  old  land  whose  flowers  never  close; 

And  again  the  azure  shadows  are  floating  up 

And  the  silver  of  dawn  drifts  down, 

And  comes  a  whirr  of  murmuring  wings, 

A  sense  of  unseen  exquisite  things, 

And  a  flashing  of  green  and  flame 

When  the  grey  moths  have  flown. 

From  a  dim,  sweet  land  of  love 

Where  the  Little  People  have  gone, 

The  Humming-Birds  come  through  the  dawn's  blue  dusk 

When  Earth-Folk  slumber  on  — 

Last  of  a  reign  of  loveliness 

Where  tiny  souls  for  long 

Walked  abroad  in  a  petal  dress 

And  danced  to  the  midge's  song. 

Now,  from  the  glamor  of  olden  meadows, 

From  brooks  where  elfin  herdsmen  sang, 

The  Humming-Birds  pass  through  the  Veil  of  Shadows  — 

The  Humming-Birds  —  darting  —  alone  — 

And  the  bent  bells  and  the  blooms  half -blown 

Hear  the  echo  of  chimes  that  rang 

When  fields  of  fairy  seed  were  sown. 

In  the  scented  hush  of  a  silver  hour 

When  the  eyes  of  June  are  heavy  with  sleep, 

Oh,  Love,  Young  Love  with  the  face  of  a  flower, 

Steal  out  to  our  secret  garden  glade 

And,  bright  on  bud  and  heavy  on  blade, 

You  shall  see  the  tears  that  the  Wee  Folk  weep. 


72 


BIRDS  THAT  CLEAVE  THE  SHADOWS 

But  the  sorrow  of  this  shall  not  be  deep 
When  the  last  veils  are  drowsily  drawn, 
And,  flashing  and  droning,  heralding  dawn, 
Back  to  Earth  come  the  Humming-Birds : 
Back  to  Earth  from  a  fairy  lawn 
Where  tiny  shepherds  tend  their  herds ; 
From  golden  vales  by  an  amethyst  sea 
That  moves  to  a  faint  old  melody  — 
Back  to  Earth  —  darting  —  alone  — 
Back  from  the  sweets  of  elfin  meadows  — 
The  bent  bells  and  the  blooms  half -blown 
Bow  to  the  Birds  that  cleave  the  Shadows. 


73 


WHEN  I  LAY  DOWN  MY  CRAFTSMAN  TOOLS  — 

When  I  lay  down  my  craftsman  tools  and  pass 
And  the  wild  life  of  Earth  comes  drifting  in 
Upon  this  garden  plot  —  like  secret  sin 
Into  the  tender  soul  of  a  sweet  lass  — 
When  brambles  weave  and  tangle  to  a  mass 
Of  thorny  things,  and  trees  shut  out  the  day, 
And  sad-eyed  friends  who  loved  me  wend  this  way 
And  find  no  flowers  among  the  untended  grass  — 

And  ponder  —  with  hearts  murmuring  'Alas, 
Beauty  and  brain  have  sought  their  common  clay, 
All  that  he  did  was  as  a  wind  that  blows  — ' 
Oh,  then  let  memory  see  my  garden  as 
It  was  when  breezes  made  the  blossoms  sway 
And  all  about  was  fragrance  of  the  rose. 


74 


THE  MUSE  IN  CHURCH 

The  gates  of  brass  are  closed 
That  guard  the  ivory  altar ; 
The  great  arched  rafters  frown  on  thee 
Who  art  the  harlot's  daughter: 
With  lips  like  a  carmine  rose, 
With  robes  like  orchids  rare, 
With  breath  like  spices  delicate 
That  languorous  pagans  bear: 
With  thy  petal  cheeks  aglowing, 
And  with  thy  white  knees  showing, 
And  thy  soft  eyes  that  falter  — 
Go  hence,  enticing  demon  child, 
Thou  hast  not  beads  nor  psalter. 


75 


IN  JANUARY  FOG 

There,  the  familiar  black  old  chimney-place 
Yawning  and  huge,  filled  with  mysterious  shadows, 
And  pewter  mugs  on  the  heavy  mantel  shelf 
And  candlesticks  and  ancient  willow-ware  — 
And,  in  the  ingle-nook  —  oh  —  boyhood's  dream! 
A  flickering  glow  of  firelight  on  dark  hair. 
And  then  the  garden  gate  would  creak,  and  we 
Would  meet  in  silence  as  two  shadows  meet, 
And  take  the  footpath  over  Bubble  Bridge 
And  watch  the  town-lights  blurring  through  the  fog. 
What  if  the  foot-path  was  a  squelching  bog? 
What  if  the  fog  had  changed  to  mizzling  raint 
We  scarcely  knew  we  loved,  but  it  was  sweet 
To  wander  so  —  and,  so  back  home  again. 
All  under  mist  and  rain  and  dripping  branches, 
Soft  hands,  wet  hair,  and  eyes  as  pure  as  dew ; 
Shy  words  beneath  the  spreading  cottage  thatch 
And  then  you'd  go  — 

I'd  hear  the  clicking  latch 
And  see  the  firelight's  sudden  leaping  glow 
And  turn,  in  youth's  mad  chivalry  of  dream, 
And  tramp  the  sodden  fields  all  night  —  with  you. 


76 


THERE  IS  A  GARDEN  IN  MY  BRAIN  — 

There  is  a  garden  in  my  brain 

And  I  shall  make,  before  I  die, 

A  thing  whose  beauty  shall  be  pain ; 

And  men  that  feel  its  mystery 

Shall  climb  at  midnight  through  black  rain 

To  sit  beneath  my  twisted  firs ; 

Till  when  the  breast  of  morning  stirs, 

And  when  the  winds  of  morning  rise, 

They  shall  go  down  the  hill  again 

With  dreaming  hearts  and  staring  eyes. 

And  when  the  golden  bees  awake 
To  wander  through  my  drifted  blooms, 
And  when  the  blossomed  branches  shake 
Their  perfume  into  dewy  glooms, 
And  burden  silvery  spider  looms 
And  fill  my  paths  with  fragrant  snow, 
Oh !  then  the  feet  of  men  shall  go 
Slowly  amid  my  gold  and  green 
As  though  in  silent,  sacred  rooms 
Where  ghosts  of  long-dead  saints  are  seen. 

And,  softly,  when  the  day  is  dead 
And  flowers  that  love  the  dusk  unfold, 
Softly,  oh,  softly,  feet  shall  tread 
That  leave  no  imprint  in  the  mold ; 
Nor  blade  of  grass,  nor  leaf,  shall  hold 
Their  dainty  trace  of  shaken  dew, 
But  a  strange  fragrance,  rich  and  new, 
Shall  slowly  flow  through  shadows  deep 
Until  the  lips  of  night  are  cold 
And  dim  things  tremble  into  sleep. 


77 


OVERDUE. 


SO  CENTS  O 
AND     TO     $,  00    ON     ru       * 

°N     THE    SEVENTH     DAY 


AUB    311933 
JUL    1   1941 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


